


Catch a Glimpse

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Clint Barton Bingo Prompts [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dick Pics, Frottage, M/M, Selfies, Sexting, Sort Of, can you build a relationship from selfies and memes, escalating gay selfie chicken, the answer may surprise you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Clint blinks at his phone in surprise. He has a text from… Bucky?Opening the phone, he realizes he has a selfie from Bucky.Why does he have a selfie from Bucky?Which isn’t to say it isn’t a very good selfie - it is.  It’s a very, very good selfie. It’s all bedroom eyes and carefully mussed hair and bare skin and what appear to be expensive sheets, and that same look Bucky gives him when Clint slurps his coffee straight out of the pot like the uncivilized shithead that he is.The look has never been sexy before now.But softened by dim light and a lack of clothes and fucking bedsheets, well. It’s sexy now.Clint has no idea why it’s been sent to him but-Wait.Just above the selfie from Bucky is a selfie to Bucky. Of Clint. The same selfie he’d sent Natasha-Oh.The same selfie he hadn’t sent Natasha because he’s sent it to Bucky instead for some inexplicable reason.





	Catch a Glimpse

**Author's Note:**

> This is in my docs as 'Gay Selfie Chicken' and that's honestly a better title than it ended up having. 
> 
> This idea started when Clara challenged me to find a scenario with this selfie thing. Then there was Mandatory Fun Day's flight attendant photo inspo and LO! 7k words of filth was born.
> 
> I was a day late on posting, but I back dated.
> 
> This also meets my Clint Barton Bingo prompt of "Flirting" - right, this counts as flirting, right guys? RIGHT GUYS?

Bucky’s phone beeps. He rolls over with a groan, fumbling for it. It isn’t the phone’s fault that he’s hardly slept, or that he hates cellphones and the expectations attached to them with the fire of a thousand suns.  

None of that is the phone’s fault, but it doesn’t lessen Bucky’s ire as he jabs at the button until the screen lights up, demanding his password.

It takes him three tries to get it typed in correctly. 

Goddamn metal fingers on a goddamn touch screen.

Bucky absolutely does not think about Tony’s offer of a modified Stark phone that will read the metal fingers with ease. Nope. That’s not a thing.  

The phone unlocks and Bucky see the beeping is being caused by an incoming text message which, for some reason, is beeping repetitively rather than just one tone to let him know he’s received a message he can safely ignore. 

The message is of Barton’s face.

_ What the fuck? _

The message is of Barton’s face, and he looks bored and annoyed and he’s dressed up like a fucking pilot-

No.

He’s dressed up like a fucking flight attendant, with his hair all neatly gelled and a little pair of metal wings on the left side of his vest, and a tie that is actually  _ tied _ appropriately, and it is all Bucky can do not to laugh outright.

Barton looks disgruntled and bored, and he’s making a weird face, but still strangely good-looking in the flight attendant’s uniform, and Bucky suddenly remembers that Barton is on some kind of undercover op somewhere that  _ apparently _ requires him to dress as a flight attendant. 

Why the fuck he’s sending Bucky, of all people, selfies, he doesn’t know. 

There’s no accompanying text, no indication as to why he felt the need to share his face at some god-awful oh-dark-thirty hour of the morning, and there is nothing Bucky can think of to say in response.

Instead, Bucky sits up against the headboard, runs his fingers through his hair, and snaps a selfie in return, his eyebrow raised and his best unimpressed look on his face.

The brightness of the flash makes him squint and it is  _ not _ a good look.

Bucky is absolutely not going to send Barton a selfie that looks worse than his does in a goddamn flight attendant uniform. His collared shirt is short-sleeved, for fuck’s sake. There’s nothing stylish about it. And Bucky can manage a better selfie than that - he took goddamn art classes. Granted, they were seventy years ago, and there was a lot more figure drawing, but he can at least manage a well-lit picture of his own face.

He tries it with the bedside lamp next, but that casts weird shadows along his shoulders and makes his nose look long, so, with a long-suffering sigh, Bucky gets out of bed, turns on the closet light, angles it so that the shaft of golden yellow glow will hit him right where he lies in bed, and goes back to bed.

It helps some with the shadows, but not enough. 

Bucky turns the bedside lamp back off.

The resulting picture is, in fact, perfect. Bucky holds the phone with his metal hand, tilting it until there are no weird shadows, his eyebrow is arched exactly how he intended, and his face looks entirely unimpressed. It’s clear he’s lying in bed, slate grey sheets rumpled around him and his hair is tousled just enough to imply… things.

He doesn’t pause to examine why he’d want to imply anything.

The selfie gets sent off with exactly as much information as Barton had provided him -- that is to say, none -- and Bucky lays back down for about thirty seconds before he realizes that sleep is a lost cause and gets up with a huff to go make himself a cup of coffee.

Fucking cellphones.

**

Clint blinks at his phone in surprise. He has a text from… Bucky? 

Opening the phone, he realizes he has a selfie from Bucky.

Why does he have a selfie from Bucky?

Which isn’t to say it isn’t a very good selfie - it is.  It’s a very, very good selfie. It’s all bedroom eyes and carefully mussed hair and bare skin and what appear to be expensive sheets, and that same look Bucky gives him when Clint slurps his coffee straight out of the pot like the uncivilized shithead that he is.

The look has never been sexy before now. 

But softened by dim light and a lack of clothes and fucking  _ bedsheets _ , well. It’s sexy now. 

Clint has no idea why it’s been sent to him but-

Wait.

Just above the selfie from Bucky is a selfie  _ to _ Bucky. Of Clint. The same selfie he’d sent Natasha-

Oh.

The same selfie he hadn’t sent Natasha because he’s sent it to Bucky instead for some inexplicable reason.

He taps the message and starts to explain that he hadn’t meant to send the selfie and then--

Doesn’t. 

Because it already looks stupid that he’s sent Barnes a selfie in the first place, but Barnes, at least, is playing along, not questioning it, hasn’t sent a  _ What the fuck, Barton _ message in response, and Clint-

Clint and Bucky aren’t  _ not _ friends, but they aren’t exactly  _ friendly _ either, and Clint would like to get to know him better. Bucky is serious but snarky, with an acerbic sense of humor and superior aim and, frankly, hot like the surface of the  _ sun _ and Clint doesn’t want to be like  _ oops sorry that was for Nat _ and put an end to this, whatever it is, before it even gets started. 

He closes the messaging app and decides to let sleeping dogs lie, or whatever the phrase is. He’s got canned soda and pretzels to hand out anyway.

God, this job is the  _ worst _ .

**

The next selfie Bucky gets is clearly of Clint in some second-rate motel room. Bucky’s seen enough of them to recognize the basics of the package - polyester bedspread, old but clean bathroom, furniture that fell straight out of the 90s. If Bucky’s seen one, he’s seen a thousand, all that time he spent on the run from Steve.

The thought gives him a pain, so Bucky chooses to ignore it in favor of checking out Clint’s latest picture.

Bucky’s not sure what’s prompted this new and intriguing method of communication, but he’s not really gonna complain about it.

Clint is sprawled out on the bed, his hair now a mess from it’s neatly combed style this morning, his tie long since gone, the vest and shirt stripped away to reveal a t-shirt so tight Bucky would swear it was one of Steve’s. Bucky can see the edge of a pair of worn jeans, and Clint’s wearing a cocky smile and holding a beer with his free hand.

There’s a text with the photo this time.

_ Home sweet home.  At least for the next couple of weeks _ . 

Bucky huffs a laugh.  

He looks around. He’s at the gym, burning off energy while Steve is busy with Stark, and he’s been running on the treadmill for the last hour. There’s a mirrored wall on one side - a modern trend Bucky has yet to figure out. What do people even do with mirrored walls in the gym?  Is it supposed to be for watching your form?

But for now, it’s the perfect opportunity to snap a new photo without using the face camera.  

He gives himself a critical once-over. His hair is pulled back, but it’s started to come loose from the tie, strands of it hanging in his face, and his shirt is damp with sweat above the running shorts and sneakers. It’s clingy but not transparent, and he’s got a bottle of water in his left hand. 

Bucky tugs a few more strands loose, tucks one or two behind his ears, and turns a grin on the mirror as he snaps the photo. 

He crops it, a little, once he’s looking at it on his phone, cutting out the sweaty towel hanging on the bar of the treadmill, and the loose weights he hasn’t put away on the other side of the room, then hesitates before sending it off. It needs a caption, he guesses, since they’re apparently doing that now.

_ Home away from home _ , he types, after a second, and sends both the photo and the message before he overthinks it. 

**

Clint blinks at the message he gets in response. 

Those  _ motherfucking thighs _ are going to be the death of him, he decides. 

He knows Barnes can do that fucking thigh thing that Natasha does, too, because he’s seen him use it on Steve at least twice, who’s never prepared for anyone’s thighs around his neck, apparently, always caught off-guard with a hilarious look of bewilderment on his face.

Not that anyone would be prepared for Bucky fucking Barnes’ thighs around their head, in Clint’s opinion. 

That’s just a ride you hold on tight for and hope you don’t suffocate to death.

But damn, what a way to go.

And Bucky has one-upped him twice now, and Clint just cannot let that stand. It takes him a couple of days to come up with a way to return the favor, but he finally manages it. This undercover job shit is a fucking nightmare, but he’s made friends with a few of the other flight attendants in the area, and one of them - Jon - invites him out for a game of ultimate Frisbee on Tuesday afternoon. 

“Sure!” Clint says. It’s a game that’s right up his alley, and it’s also a good opportunity to get a sweaty, shirtless selfie to send Bucky.

He’s actively not thinking about the fact that they’re basically playing selfie chicken at this point, and wonders what Bucky thinks is going on. 

Three games in - and Clint is  _ dominating _ \- they break for water, slapping each other on the shoulders in that bro way, and Clint takes the opportunity to strip his sweat-soaked t-shirt off and guzzle a bottle of ice-cold water. Even early spring in Phoenix is too hot to live. He dumps the remainder of the bottle of water over his head, scrubbing it through his hair in an effort to cool off, then takes the selfie.

It looks good, he decides. There’s a carefully-maintained park in the background, the hot Arizona sun is shining down, and he’s damp and flushed. Shirtless was a good call, he thinks, because he’s being baked into a pleasant summer tan and the way he held the phone is showing off just enough bicep to be interesting. He’s still got a frisbee clutched in one hand.

If Bucky can throw his thighs out there, Clint can definitely show off  _ his _ best attributes. 

_ Wish you were here, I might have some actual competition _ he says, like an asshole, and sends it off along with the photo.

Jon shouts his cover name from across the grass, and Clint tucks the phone back into his bag -- where it hopefully won’t get stolen -- without waiting for a response. 

 

**

 

_ Holy shit _ , Bucky thinks, when he opens the message hours after Barton’s sent it.

The guy looks like he was  _ made _ for summer, all damp, tanned, freckled skin, blonde hair and a cocky grin on his face.

The caption is nice in that asshole-ish way that Barton has, too. Bucky snorts, eyeing the frisbee on the edge of the photo. If someone has convinced him to play frisbee with them, that someone deserves the righteous ass-kicking they undoubtedly got. Clint throws Steve’s shield better than Bucky, most times. Something about the ricochet, which is different from calculating rifle angles.  

He’s probably murder at pool.

And Barton has definitely escalated this game they’re playing, sending a half-naked photo like that.  Bucky’s first selfie had been shirtless, yeah, but it had mostly been the edge of his shoulder and part of his neck, not all of-- 

Well all of  _ that _ .  

He can’t even tell Barton’s got pants on, though considering it looks like a public park, he probably does.  

No it’s just traps and biceps and  _ abs _ and Bucky suddenly realizes he’s developing a  _ thing _ for Barton. 

Maybe just a physical thing, but some kind of thing, and that’s a little alarming. 

He puts the phone back on the table after locking the screen and lets the thought settle under his skin a little bit. He’s not sure this is a good idea at all, but something about Barton just gets to him in a way he can’t quite put a finger on. They had plenty in common, sure. Snipers, both of them, along with that whole brainwashing garbage. Avengers. Handy in a fight.  

But Barton is loud and boisterous where Bucky tends towards reserved.

He’s a good guy though, always willing to throw a hand in. Bucky just isn’t sure whether developing a crush on the guy is a good idea.

It takes a couple of days, but Bucky’s innate competitiveness finally gets the better of him.  Barton’s issued a clear challenge, with that shirtless selfie, and Bucky’s got to either put up or shut up, and he doesn’t really want to shut up.

He’s enjoying himself.

Huh.

The thought surprises him.

Still, he’s got to answer the current message.  

Bucky needs some time to come up with a strategy. 

The opportunity comes up a few days later, when Steve sweet talks Bucky into using the hot tub after their sparring session, arguing that the hot water is good for sore muscles and, well, Bucky can’t really argue the point.

Especially once he sinks down into the water with a downright pornographic sigh, feeling all the muscles in his back - especially the ones around his left arm - loosen and relax.  

“Should I leave you two alone?” Steve jokes, a shit-eating grin on his face, but all Bucky can respond with is a raised middle finger. 

Bucky is about twenty minutes into the most relaxing moment of his life when his brain helpfully reminds him that he owes Barton a selfie. And what better selfie than one of Bucky relaxing in a swirl of bubbles and self-satisfaction. Bucky ducks under the water to get his hair wet, slicking it back out of his face, and then stretches to where he’s left his shorts in a pile on the floor by the tub. He dries his hand as best he can on the slick material - they’re exercise shorts, after all - and digs his phone out of the pocket.

He’s halfway through getting the angles right on the picture when he realizes Steve is staring at him in bewilderment.

Bucky snaps the photo anyway, refusing to be embarrassed.  

“Did you just- did you just take a  _ selfie _ ?” Steve asks, confusion coloring his tone. 

“Yep,” Bucky says, looking said selfie over critically. He crops it a little, and considers adding a filter, before deciding that’s just a little  _ too _ far. He does hit the little magic wand button to see if it makes a difference.

It does. He saves the picture.

Opening the messaging app he considers what kind of response he should attach the photo. 

_ My hobbies are better than yours _ he says, and sends both off with only the slightest hesitation.

“Are you  _ sending _ it to someone?” Steve continues, and Bucky gently tosses the phone over to land on top of his shorts and leans back in the water again.

“Yep,” Bucky says again, leaning his head on the edge of the pool.

“Who?” Steve demands, but Bucky doesn’t answer him. 

**

Clint is-

Clint is going to need a minute and some alone time, is what Clint is. 

Clint is sitting in the minuscule flight attendant seat in the back of the plane, somewhere over Oklahoma, and Bucky Barnes is going to be the death of him. 

Technically, Clint supposes, he’s not supposed to have his phone on, but  _ technically _ his phone is super-boosted by Stark tech and normally a phone wouldn’t even have cell service this high off the ground. So when it’d buzzed in his pocket, Clint’s natural curiosity and the downtime between passing snacks and collecting trash had coalesced into him having just enough time to pull the phone out and stare.

And stare.

And stare some more.

“Holy shit,” he mutters to himself. 

Barnes has texted him back,  _ finally _ , and Clint is  _ not _ disappointed. It was worth the three day wait, if he’s being honest.

Barnes is slouched in what Clint recognizes as the jacuzzi in the Tower, water beaded on his skin and his hair pushed out of his face for once and the utter picture of relaxation. The water stops just below his nipples and obscures the view just enough to make Clint wonder if he’s naked. He’s stretched out, right arm along the edge of the tub, and he’s the very definition of bedroom eyes, looking lazy and satisfied. 

Clint is going to die on a twenty year old plane at forty-thousand feet, and he can’t bring himself to be upset about it.

“Your boyfriend’s hot,” Lynn, the only flight attendant with any personality that Clint’s worked with recently, says from over his shoulder.

Clint jumps about twelve feet. 

“He’s uh- we’re not- I mean…” he stutters, still staring at his phone.

Lynn snorts.  “Okay, your fuckbuddy’s hot. If you get bored with him, give him my number.”

Clint can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “Yeah,” he agrees, “he’s pretty hot.” And then the rest of it catches up with him, along with the black sting of jealousy. “I don’t think I’m gonna get bored with him, but I’ll keep it in mind,” he adds, lightly, strangling down the urge to tell her to fuck off. Clint likes Lynn, he reminds himself, and alienating the rest of the crew isn’t going to get him any further in his mission objective. 

And staring at photos of possibly-naked Bucky Barnes isn’t going to get him there either, he finally manages to admit to himself as he locks his phone and puts it away.

What response he’s going to send to  _ that _ photo, he has no idea. 

It’s nearly a week before Clint even gets the opportunity to respond. The mission comes to a head, culminating in a drawn-out firefight, the capture of a human trafficking ring, and miraculously no injuries for Clint.  

It’s some kind of record.

He should probably text Natasha. 

Instead, he goes back to his motel room, showers the smell of cordite and smoke off his body, and snaps a picture of himself with a barely-there towel in the mirror he wiped off with his bare hands, and sends it to Bucky with the caption  _ Mission Success!! _

He adds a few crossbow emojis while he’s at it. 

Then he collapses face-first on the bed, and is asleep before he even thinks to plug the phone in.

**

Bucky looks at the photo again.

Bucky has looked at the photo too many times to count and way too many times to admit to, but he still looks. And looks. And looks.

Steve has tried to wrestle his phone out of his hands three times to see what Bucky keeps looking at.  He’s succeeded once, but couldn’t work out Bucky’s password, which is a small miracle unto itself, if Bucky’s being honest about it. Especially since the password is the numerical version of ‘fuck’. One day Steve is going to work it out, and Bucky is going to be fucked, but today is not that day. 

The picture is a lot of things. It’s a little blurred, obviously taken when Barton was post mission and exhausted, but something about the casualness of it appeals to Bucky for reasons he can’t quite articulate. Like Clint was tired, but still wanted to send something to Bucky.  

It is also, quite frankly, hot as hell. The little crush that Bucky had only been peripherally aware of has blossomed into something full-blown and smoldering and Bucky has been carefully eyeing it out of the corner of his eye, trying not to encourage it. 

Clint is nearly naked in the picture. There’s a towel that only barely skirts decency, because there are miles of bare skin. Biceps and pecs and abs and that summer tan. The towel is low enough that Bucky can see exactly where Clint likes to wear his shorts when he’s out in the sun, and the shorts are low enough that Bucky can tell Clint does a fair bit of self-grooming.

Manscaping, he thinks he remembers Tony calling it, then instantly wishes he didn’t remember that. 

Either way, the picture isn’t safe for public consumption regardless of the scrap of white Egyptian cotton that’s protecting Clint’s modesty and Bucky is not at all upset about the situation.

Of course, he’s still not sure what exactly he’s going to send in response because holy shit.

But he’s sure he’ll think of something.

Clint’s due back at the tower any day now - the mission is wrapped up, Bucky has more than just Clint’s exhausted text to confirm now, since he knows Steve had to go in for a debrief - and Bucky wants to send something before he gets there, because he’s not sure how this is going to play out now that he and Clint are in the same building instead of halfway across the country from each other.

He hopes that it wasn’t just a diversion from a boring mission for Clint.

He hopes that there’s going to be more playful text messages and maybe even a bit of friendship that develops from the texting.

He’s afraid to hope for more than that, so he doesn’t. 

The night before Clint’s flight is due in, Bucky finally puts his money where his mouth is - along with a couple of shots of Thor’s special booze - and sends Clint his own shower selfie.  

But without the towel.

**

Clint is not sure he isn’t dead.

Actually, he’s pretty sure he survived the mission take down with nary a scratch, along with a long and boring flight back to New York, and a Lyft to the tower, and he vaguely recalls collapsing into his stale, unmade bed, but he’s still not sure he’s not dead. 

Because when he wakes up to the godforsaken sunlight and chirp of birds, there’s a naked picture of Bucky on his phone.

He’s  _ pretty fucking sure _ he’s hallucinating. 

Granted, the selfie is artfully posed - there’s no dick shot, which is frankly a goddamn shame - but Bucky Barnes is naked all the same. 

Bucky Barnes should be carved from marble and placed somewhere in a Catholic church and labeled, simply, ‘sin’. 

He is all elongated lines, with the type of musculature that is featured in human anatomy books and life art drawings, and decorated with scars like some kind of war paint that Clint is very, very attracted to. The scars make him more human, somehow, despite the metal arm that is, for the first time, on display in the photo. Clint has noticed, okay, that Bucky tends to use the metal arm to  _ take _ the photos, rather than framing it in the shot, and he just assumed that was some kind of self-consciousness that Clint wasn’t going to poke to deeply into. 

And maybe it is self-consciousness, because the Bucky in this photo looks belligerent. He’s staring into the camera like he’s daring it to contradict him and Clint find the whole thing ridiculously hot. 

The arm, for the record, is also ridiculously hot.

How the man makes a metal fucking arm look that fucking good, Clint has no idea, but he is sure as fuck working it. 

There are more scars around the arm and on the left side of Bucky’s body than anywhere else - the photo is angled slightly away from the phone so Clint can’t get a full view of them, but he can see them creeping around the edges of the metal and along his ribs, where his body is turned. There are other scars too - one across his hip, and a few that are on his back and edging around the sides - but the most prominent ones are on the left. Bucky is turned so that the metal arm is only visible at the shoulder and from the elbow down, and so that his cock - again, it’s a goddamn  _ shame  _ \- is hidden behind the bend of his knee, but there’s still a glorious amount of naked body on display and Clint decides he needs to get very, very drunk to deal with this.

Luckily, Natasha is on board with this plan. 

He goes up to her floor and she takes one look at his face before pulling a bottle of Russian vodka out of the freezer and places it none-to-gently on the table between them, pulling out bar glasses that double as shot glasses for the both of them. 

“За любовь!” she says, solemn, and tosses back the first shot. 

 

“Love is for children,” Clint mutters, but he dutifully takes his own shot, grimacing at the burn. 

 

They are half a bottle deep when Natasha finally shoves him out the door, and Clint stumbles his way to the elevator, half intoxicated and half in disbelief.

 

He has not, unfortunately, forgot about the naked Bucky on his phone. 

 

He can’t stop thinking about the naked Bucky on his phone.

 

Bucky’s floor is only two floors above his.

 

Clint reluctantly hits the button for his own floor.

 

Once back in his apartment, he makes a token effort at cleaning up. He’s been gone almost three weeks and everything, while not  _ dirty _ , is stale and cluttered, and cleaning it up distracts him from wondering what Bucky’s cock looks like and whether he’s a grower or a shower, and whether or not it’s circumcised. Given the time period he’s from, it’s more likely he’s  _ not _ , and something about that appeals to Clint’s inner deviant.

 

The dishes need to be done.

 

The sheets need to be changed. 

 

Clint does both of these, and then he grabs a beer out of his own fridge.

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

 

Bucky is still there in all his naked glory.

 

Clint considers setting it as his phone lock screen, then decides that’s creepy.  

 

He’s drunk enough to consider it, but not drunk enough to  _ do _ it. 

 

There are other things he is drunk enough to do, however, and the next thing he knows, he’s got his hands down his pants and his cock in his fist. 

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, putting the phone down and tipping his head back against the sofa as he rolls his balls between his fingers. “This is a stupid idea, Barton.”

 

It doesn’t stop him from squeezing his dick and thinking about the picture on his phone. He thinks about the curve of Bucky’s ass and those  _ goddamn thighs _ . He wonders if Bucky’d hold him down in bed, and that gets an involuntary full-body shudder that’s completely unrelated to his hand’s activities.

 

This is almost certainly not what Bucky’d intended when he sent the picture.  

 

Or maybe it is, Clint doesn’t know. 

 

He hasn’t quite figured Bucky out, can’t believe they’ve made it as far as they have in this weird game of gay selfie chicken, can’t figure out where he’s supposed to go from here, can’t figure out why Bucky would even  _ want _ to send Clint naked selfies. The guy could have anyone on the team, just about. He knows there’s some kind of history with Nat that he carefully doesn’t ask about, and he suspects there was a thing with Steve, back in the day, though they don’t seem too keen to rekindle it, and Steve has been pining after Tony for months. 

 

The next obvious one-up is full-frontal nudity, and Clint can’t figure out if that’s a line in the sand, or just the natural progression of their whatever-this-is. 

 

He looks down at his cock in his hand, flushed and erect, with precome beading at the tip and thinks  _ oh. _

 

A dick pic is probably the next logical step, right?

 

Vodka!Clint says yes.

 

Partially-sober Clint says  _ ho, don’t do it _ . 

 

Vodka!Clint wins. 

 

Clint shifts his jeans a little more, so that the unzipped fly frames his cock a little better, pumps himself a few times so that he’s even harder, even more flushed and ready, and then reaches for his phone.

 

He doesn’t even hesitate to take the photo, but when it comes to sending the picture, well…

 

There is a moment of insecurity.  

 

Not about his dick, which even Clint knows is more impressive than average, and he is at least fairly confident in his own skills at using it. 

 

Mostly, it’s just the overall insecurity of  _ am I really gonna fuckin’ do this? _

 

So, of course, he hits send.

 

Approximately two seconds later, the full horror of what he’s done - unclouded by lust over the photo of Bucky’s body and the vodka which has instantly cleared his system in a rush of anxiety - hits him. 

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he says, his head hitting the back of the sofa and he scrubs a hand over his face.  “What the fuck am I doing?!”

 

There’s no way to take it back. Clint wonders, wildly, if shutting the phone off in the middle of the process will stop the picture from going through, but just as he’s about to do it, the bar across the top of the screen that indicates the progress completes, and the stamp under the picture says  _ delivered _ . 

 

Clint waits with bated breath, but nothing appears immediately.

 

Then -- nothing.  Nothing for several long, indeterminate minutes.

 

He is almost relaxing, almost ready to send some kind of… smiley face emoji or who the fuck knows what, when the ellipses that indicates the other person is typing appears.

 

_ Oh, fuck _ , Clint thinks, watching in horror.

 

The ellipses disappears.

 

It reappears.

 

This happens three or four more times, until Clint can’t take it anymore. His erection has wilted, unable to withstand the anxiety of wondering whether Bucky is going to tell him fuck off or what, and he ruefully tucks it back into his jeans, zipping them but not bothering with the button. He heads to the fridge for another beer, leaving his phone on the couch cushion where he can’t watch it obsessively, and he leans against the counter and contemplates what he’s done. 

 

Which is, of course, massively fucked up, in true Barton fashion.

 

He wonders who is going to kill him first: Natasha, Steve, or Bucky himself.

 

**

 

Bucky doesn’t know what he expected when he sent Clint a naked selfie, but he’s not sure why he’s surprised by what he gets in return.

 

He is, despite Tony’s continual jabs, very well versed in most things modern America, so he’s extremely familiar with the  _ idea _ of a dick pic. He’s just never been on the receiving end of one before. If you’d asked him before thirty seconds ago, he’d have told you he wasn’t interested in getting one at all.

 

That was thirty seconds ago. 

 

Now, in the present, where he’s staring at his phone and feeling his face heat up in some strange combination of embarrassment and arousal, he’s rethinking his stance. 

 

“Buck?” Steve says, from the side of the couch where he’s folded his massive, stupid body into the kind of position that would have left him in knots seventy years ago, sketching.  “You alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but his voice is too low, too gravelly, too something, and Steve’s eyebrows raise higher. He clears his throat. “I’m fine,” he manages, and it sounds strained, even to his own ears.  “Gotta go,” he adds, and propels himself off the couch with the kind of haste that is sure to leave Steve wondering even more just what the hell is going on, but Bucky has nothing to say. He can’t even think of a reasonable excuse, because all he can think about is Clint’s dick. 

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

Bucky types… several things, as he’s walking to the elevator. He types an impossibly cheesy pick-up line, then reminds himself he’s not Wilson, and deletes it. Then he types a less cheesy pick-up line; has to remind himself he’s not Steve either. Tries for something snarky, something that’s more his dry sense of humor, and that comes out more insulting than flattering and he erases that too. 

 

He’s floundering in the elevator, doors shut because he still hasn’t chosen a floor, when he decides  _ fuck it _ .

 

Before his courage can abandon him, Bucky hits the button for Clint’s floor. 

 

Because JARVIS is efficient as fuck, he’s standing outside Clint’s door only a few seconds later, questioning every life decision he’s made up to this point. He’s still standing outside the door, shuffling his feet indecisively and feeling like an asshole, for a solid eternity. Surely the heat death of the universe is going to take him at any moment, right?

 

Bucky looks at the picture again, and decides again,  _ fuck it _ . 

 

If Barton - if  _ Clint _ \- didn’t mean it as an invitation, at least he’s going to have embarrassed himself at least as much as Bucky by sending the fucking photo. He won’t tell anyone, because then Bucky might tell the whole team Clint sends dick pics.

 

Maybe Clint sends dick pics to the whole team?

 

Bucky shoves the phone in his pocket, pushes all his doubts and insecurities aside, and knocks on the door.  

 

There’s a muffled crash from behind the door, and then some more-muffled cursing, and then Clint opens the door, stumbling and half-dressed and out of breath. He blinks at Bucky in bewildered confusion.

 

“Oh shit,” Clint says, which was not at all what Bucky was hoping to hear him say. “Please don’t kill me.”

 

“I-- what?” Bucky says, pulling up short. “Why would I kill you?”

 

Clint gives some kind of half-hearted shrug slash flinch that instantly makes Bucky feel bad for how he hasn’t really tried to bond with the guy or whatever, but Bucky’s still thinking about that photo, and about the texts they’ve exchanged over the last few weeks, in between the selfies, the little updates about their days and the dumb memes, and Bucky’s relaying of Steve’s dumber than usual shenanigans, and Clint’s stories about Phoenix, and again thinks  _ to hell with it _ . He takes a deep breath.

 

“Please tell me this-” he gestures between the two of them kind of vaguely “-is a thing.”

 

Clint blinks at him for a few seconds and then all his breath rushes out of his chest in some kind of relieved sigh that makes Bucky relax. “Yeah, yes, yeah this can- this can totally be a thing, I’m one hundred percent down for this to be a thing.”

 

“Good,” Bucky says, and shoulders his way through the door, kicking it shut behind him and reaching for Clint at the same time. They end up tangled together against the half-wall near the door, where Bucky keeps a small table for his wallet and to empty his pocket and Clint, apparently, keeps nothing, because it’s oh-so-easy for Bucky to shove him up against the blank wall and plunder his mouth, arching up against his body and tilting his head to make their mouths line up.

 

Clint is taller than him. Bucky has, objectively, always known that, but it’s different when they’re kissing, when Bucky is crowding him against the wall and sucking his tongue into his mouth and biting at his lips, when his neck is craned up against gravity, and he’s rocking up on his toes to grind their hips together.

 

“Fuck,” Clint says, breaking away to gasp for air. 

 

“Sure,” Bucky says, mouthing at the line of his collarbone, where Clint has conveniently forgot to put on a shirt and left plenty of exposed skin for Bucky to explore. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Clint says again, more emphatically, and reaches down with both hands to grab Bucky’s ass and yank him even closer. “Bed?” he asks, before sucking Bucky’s earlobe in between his teeth. 

 

Bucky pulls Clint away from the wall in answer, dragging him down the hallway and in the general direction of where the bedroom is located in his own apartment. He hopes that they’re all laid out relatively the same, or he’s going to feel stupid when they end up in a closet. 

 

The door at the end of the hallway does, in fact, open into a bedroom, one that’s cleaner than Bucky would have expected, with fresh, crisp sheets on the bed that give him pause. “Expecting company?” he asks, smirking over his shoulder at Clint. 

 

Clint flushes even more, beyond the underlying blush of arousal, heading somewhere into embarrassed territory. “Needed a distraction,” he admits.  

 

Bucky files that away for later perusal, instead shoving Clint down and onto the mattress before climbing over him. He applies his mouth to the same territory he’s already covered, before working his way lower, to Clint’s unsnapped jeans and the bulge that’s pressing up against the zipper insistently. Bucky lowers the zipper carefully and Clint’s cock springs out, hard and flushed and damp, looking even better in person than it had on the six inch screen of his phone, and he drags his tongue up the length of it in one wet, sloppy glide. 

 

Clint hisses out something unintelligible, bunching his fist in Bucky’s t-shirt. “Off,” he demands, and Bucky is quick to comply. 

 

He drags Clint’s jeans down while he’s at it, throwing them across the room without looking, and then Clint is gloriously naked and sprawled across purple sheets and Bucky-

 

Bucky had no idea how badly he wanted this until it’s here in front of him for the taking. It’s his turn to swear, low and wanting, under his breath. He shucks his own jeans and underwear, crawling back over Clint until they’re slotted together, and plunders his mouth, looking without leaping, diving in to something without thinking through the consequences the same way he always has, his whole life, minus the parts where he wasn’t the boss of himself. 

 

He’s always been one to do what feels right and damn the consequences, and that’s something else he and Clint have in common, he thinks. 

 

Clint rolls them until they’re on their sides, still horizontal on the bed, and hooks Bucky’s leg over his hip so they’re rocking together, trying to find a rhythm that works.

 

“Is this too fast?” Clint asks, breathless, even as he delivers sharp nips and soothing kisses to Bucky’s shoulders, even the one that’s ruined by Hydra fuckery and metal mechanics. Bucky barely notices the difference, and it seems Clint doesn’t care.  

 

“Who gives a shit?” Bucky asks. “You wanna?”

 

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” Clint says, rocking harder against him, and they finally manage to find an angle and and speed that seems to do it for both of them.

 

“Good. We can work out the details later. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for weeks,” Bucky admits, rolling his hips up harder.

 

Whatever Clint was going to say is lost in a wrecked-sounding groan, and his fingers dig harder into Bucky’s back as he reciprocates the motion, and it’s Bucky’s turn to moan.  

 

They’re both sweating now, rocking against each other in slick, sharp thrusts, precome all over both of them. Clint gets a hand in Bucky’s hair, tugging at it just hard enough to make Bucky hiss, and Bucky bites Clint’s shoulder until he cries out.

 

“Oh fuck,” Clint informs him, “Oh fuck, Bucky, I’m gonna come.”

 

Bucky grunts in response, reaching down to fist their cocks together, working them at a brutal rhythm designed to get them both off as quickly as possible.  

 

Clint drags a hand up Bucky’s thigh, drifting between Bucky’s cheeks, and the brush of fingertips against his hole surprises the orgasm out of Bucky. He comes with a shocked, punched-out sound, come slicking his hand along both his and Clint’s cocks, and Clint shudders underneath him, sucking in his breath between his teeth and then blowing it out explosively, even as the wetness between them grows and his thrusts get jerky and lose their rhythm as he comes too.

 

Bucky strokes both of them until the shuddering turns into sensitivity, and then they’re both just sticky and covered in come, tangled up on Clint’s previously neat and clean bedsheets, panting for air.

 

Clint starts laughing.

 

Bucky shoves him with a come-covered hand, but Clint doesn’t budge, just laughs harder,  looking down at the handprint of jizz on his chest. He wraps his hand around Bucky’s wrist and brings his hand up to his mouth, wrapping his lips around Bucky’s index finger and sucking it clean. 

 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky manages, breath hitching in his throat. 

 

Clint grins around the finger - his middle one now - between his lips.  “Shower first?” he counters, once he’s licked that one clean too. 

 

Bucky is nodding without conscious input from his brain.  

 

The grin stays firmly planted as Clint drags Bucky out of bed, where they’ve luckily not left much mess on the sheets, and into the shower. The water is hot and plentiful, and there is a lot more kissing and soft touches in shower than there had been in the bed, a lot more emotion. Less desperation, more exploration.  

 

Clint’s fingers trace along his spine, dip into the dimples of his back and then around, up his abdomen and over his chest, hesitating briefly over the scars on his left shoulder.  Bucky wraps his hand around Clint’s and drags them over the scarring. 

 

“Can’t feel much,” Bucky rasps, “but they don’t hurt.”

 

Clint presses the softest of kisses to the edge of his shoulder where metal meets skin, before moving on.  

 

They stumble out of the shower and dry off hastily, still vaguely damp when Clint throws a pair of sweatpants at Bucky and they settle on the couch, ordering pizza and turning on mindless television.  There’s an awkward moment where they’re on opposite ends of the couch, eyeing each other, before Bucky rolls his eyes and pulls Clint into his space, and they rearrange themselves into something approximating cuddling, with Bucky settled between Clint’s thighs and leaning against his chest.

 

“This is nice,” he says, after two episodes of some show about baking and one and a half supreme pizzas devoured between them.  

 

“Mmmm,” Clint agrees, and Bucky feels the ghost of a kiss on his scalp.

 

He could get used to this, he decides.

 

**

 

It’s hours later when Bucky gets the text from Steve.

 

_ Where’d you go? _

 

Bucky debates his answer. He’s currently lazing in Clint’s bed, after a very satisfying second round which was a lot less frenzied and a lot more emotional, and he’s not sure what to tell Steve. He’s been gone for hours with nary a word, and Steve had been concerned when Bucky left the room.

 

“Wassat?” Clint mutters against his shoulder. 

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, staring at the text. 

 

“We assemblin’?”  

 

There are more slow, sleepy kisses pressed against his neck. 

 

“Nah,” Bucky answers, “He just wants to know where I’m at.”

 

“You gonna tell him?” Clint asks, and Bucky can hear the slight undercurrent of something in Clint’s voice. 

 

“Nope,” Bucky says, and Clint tenses, ever-so-slightly, behind him. “I’m gonna show him.”

 

He tilts the camera until he captures Clint’s sleepy, sated expression, the edges of the rumpled sheet, and both of their mussed hair. Clint’s arm is clearly visible around his waist, and there are at least three love bites between the two of them, though Bucky’s are fading with disappointing speed. The phone camera makes its obnoxious clicking sound that in no way resembles an actual camera shutter, and Bucky sends the photo off to Steve without even bothering with artistically cropping.

 

He ignores the approximately twenty-seven thousand beeps that arrive in response, instead rolling over to share a few more sloppy, sweet kisses with Clint.  

 

Then Clint’s phone starts buzzing.

 

Clint groans dramatically.  “Nat,” he says, as though that’s an explanation.

 

“Ignore it,” Bucky advises, “I’ve got a better idea.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to Lissadiane for the quick beta, and to Bad Decision Buddies for sprinting this to completion!


End file.
